Thunderstorm
by corngirl-jo
Summary: Sark/Syd; "She had never seen his eyes so brutally dark."


  
**THUNDERSTORM**

Their feet pounded against the wet asphalt as they ran, their muscles trembling with the strain, adrenaline pumping in their veins like a drug, keeping them going. The sweat trickling down their faces and down their spines could not cool off the heat their bodies produced as a result of the prolonged effort. Sometime between the first gunshot and the fifth their bodies matched each other's rhythm, their feet hitting the ground at the same time, splashing water on the curbs and on the grass, their arms thrusting forward and backward in unison. They even breathed as one, short, painful gasps of air filling up their lungs and then escaping to form short-lived clouds of steam. 

They had a thirty-second advantage over the men who were chasing them, but the distance that this advantage created was not big enough for them to be completely out of the bullets' reach, nor did they have time to spare to look back and check on their pursuers. So they ran, for their life depended on it. 

In this line of work, it often did. 

They had only missed the Grim Reaper by a thread this time. In fact, they still weren't out of his reach. 

So they ran, wide-eyed, unblinking, trying to keep up the speed and see what lay ahead, for the night was moonless, and humid, visibility low. The few lamps on the side of the road gave off only a faint glow, dampened by the fog that hung over the harbor. They had cleared the docks already and were heading for the warehouse where they'd hidden their car the day before. 

Her mind was blank, her body acting on pure instinct. Her eyes found their focus when her brain registered the sight of the warehouse ahead, her thighs cramping, but working ceaselessly. She was dimly aware of the man running alongside her, she registered him in her peripheral vision. Had she been able of thinking of anything but survival, she would have felt admiration for him, he had been wounded, a gunshot to his arm, which must have been bleeding and painful, yet he did not let the injury hinder his escape, his speed matched hers, his wounded arm propelling back and forth in an effort to maintain his balance as he ran. 

At any other time she would have felt a shudder of apprehension towards the idea that she might feel any kind of admiration for this man. She used to loathe him with passion, loathe everything he stood for, until she realized that she shared much of what he was. That realization dawned on her only recently, but she waved it off, buried it deep in her brain, quickly putting up walls around the thought before it had a chance to penetrate further into her consciousness. It now lingered there, on the borderland of her conscious thought, tainting her perception of him and of herself, devaluating her humanness. 

She didn't hate him, her hatred was reserved for the man who'd killed her fiancé. But she still saw him as an abomination, for he could not be anything less if he consciously chose to take life of innocent people. He was a cold-blooded killer, calculated, emotionless. She had seen no emotion but deliberation in his eyes as he had squeezed the trigger of the shotgun which had ended Quan Li's life, and she doubted his eyes were any less icy when he pointed his gun at harmless bystanders. 

He asked her a question once, matter-of-factly, clearly designed to unsettle her, just like other remarks he had directed at her. He was smirking when he asked it, the polished tone of his voice dripping with undisguised amusement. "What keeps _you _going, Agent Bristow?" he asked, rhetorically, for he knew she would never offer him a response. 

When the initial flash of anger subsided, she felt a surge of panic, what if he knew? What if he knew about her involvement with the CIA and he was challenging her now, baiting? As soon as this question penetrated her brain she felt a surge of terror gripping her heart, for this was when she realized, in split second, how alike they both were. The last year and a half flashed before her eyes, and with his sarcastic smirk burning a hole in her brain, she saw very clearly what kept her going and what she was capable of doing to achieve her goal. 

Her mind screamed in voiceless terror as she saw her own path very clearly, forever altered by Danny's untimely death. It used to ran smooth and straight when she had believed that she had been working for the good of her country, for the good of the world. It no longer was the case, the benefit of humanity no longer drove her. Her path was cobbled now, and winding, and dark, and it led to revenge, for she knew now it was her ultimate goal. Nothing mattered more to her than exacting revenge on Arvin Sloane, everything else had secondary importance. The obstacles hurled on her way by Kendall, and her father, and her mother, and even Vaughn and his belief in her, these obstacles made her set her teeth in impatience, and smile, and nod, and play along, trying to look at the bigger picture, continuously prolonging the wait, pushing further away the moment when she would finally look in Sloane's eye and see the realization dawning in his eyes that she was the agent of his undoing. 

Every day she put up pretenses, for the sake of the people at SD-6, and at the CIA, and her friends and her father. Even Vaughn. Every day she took advantage of the opportunities that being a double agent gave her to bring down Arvin Sloane. While she doubted that Sark's ultimate goal would benefit anyone but him, she could not deny that his path ran very similarly to hers. She had despised him because he manipulated people to get what he wanted, at any cost. That's what he was doing here, in SD-6, playing with her life, with all of their lives, but wasn't she guilty of the same? Wasn't she there putting up pretenses just as he was? Hadn't she once made a pact with the devil, the same devil he pacted with now? 

His path was as winding, as cobbled and as dark, and right now they ran it together. 

Only minutes ago they looked death in the eye. The back of her skull was still burning with an imprint of the barrel that had threatened to take her life. In her mind's eye she still saw them, their hands bound behind their backs, kneeling by a ditch deep enough to accommodate two bodies. She still remembered the ironic thought that flashed through her terror-filled mind, that there they were, where their dark paths led them, destined to die together and to lie together in this shallow grave, somewhere in Poland, where no one would find them, for no one knew where they there. Two adversaries, by circumstances of their own choice forced to work together, and to die together. 

She remembered his silent defiance as he had given her a last look before they were forced to go down on their knees, as if he refused to believe that this was the end, that he would never reach the end of his path, that _this_ was the end of it. She saw no fear in his eyes, but they were no longer icy blue, but dark, like a storm, and she felt strangely comforted by that observation, as if she was given a glimpse into him she would have normally never been offered. 

She remembered as seconds seemed to stretch into hours, the silence disturbed only by the sound of the waves coming from the harbor and their own quickened breathing. Neither said anything, for what was there to be said between them in this final moment. Even if there was, it would only matter for a split second and then once the gun was fired the words would be as dead as them. 

She remembered how she looked away from his defiant eyes as their knees hit the ground, and as she stared ahead, and on the periphery of her vision she saw him do the same. 

She remembered the sound of the gun being unlocked and how the cold steel touched her skull. She realized that she was to die first and she wondered if he would twitch at the sound of the shot which would take her life, knowing that he was next in the line. She wanted to close her eyes, but she didn't, refusing to show weakness to the man by her side and to her executioner. 

She heard a loud click and she felt the gun jump in the hands of the man who held it by her head, the barrel pushing into her skull abruptly and bruising its bone. She shook violently expecting darkness, but it didn't come, instead she heard a loud curse, and she realized that the gun had misfired, that she was alive, and, driven by pure instinct rather than any conscious thought, she sprang to her feet, and swung towards her executioner, taking advantage of his surprise at the gun's unexpected malfunction, leaning forward and aiming her head at his chest, hoping to knock him off his feet, but Sark got to him first, doing exactly what she planned. The unexpected attack knocked the gun out of the man's hands and she dived towards it, her hands still immobilized, her body slamming against the ground with a thud, covering the gun. 

When she thought about it now, she didn't know what they were hoping to accomplish, she doubted she would be able to aim the gun with her hands tied behind her back, plus there were other men there, by the shed where they had been kept, and they were bound to be running here now, alarmed by the commotion. Twisting her body to reach for the gun she watched as Sark got back on his feet and kicked the man on the ground in the groin, with as much force as he could muster, the man doubling over in pain. That's when the back of Sark's foot connected with the base of the guy's neck, breaking it with a loud snap. There was no pity in her eyes as she watched her would-be executioner sag towards the ground, nor was there any pity in Sark's stormy gaze when he turned to look at her. She remembered being surprised that his eyes weren't back to their icy blue, now that he had killed a man, but there was no time to ponder it, for Sark was now at her side, using his body to help her get back on her feet, and telling her in a hoarse, rushed tone to aim the gun at the rope that bound his hands and shoot. 

She remembered nodding her head frantically, her bound palms gripping the gun uncomfortably, praying that it did not misfire this time and that she did not shoot his fingers away, but she saw no such fear in his eyes, so she pulled the trigger, and when the ties fell off she felt him grab her by the arm and pull her with him as he started running, clumsily at first, because his fingers were untangling the knots that kept her ties together, and then letting go of her once he freed her hands and she was able to run by herself. 

That's when they heard the first gunshot and a split second later she heard him groan out loud and she saw him grip his right arm as blood poured between his fingers, but he never stopped, never skipped a step, and so she ran, the bullets whistling in the air. 

But that was minutes ago and now they reached the warehouse and the car, and as they were closing on it she finally spoke, in a breathless voice, "You drive, I'll take care of the wound." 

He merely nodded as they both grabbed the tarp that covered their Opel and pulled it off the car. Once inside he quickly retrieved the keys from under his seat and started the engine, slamming on the gas pedal, propelling the car out of the warehouse, and swerving onto the road. The centrifugal force caused by the maneuver sent her body flying in his direction, her shoulder smashing against his wounded arm. He scowled quietly, the pain shooting through his muscles, but he kept driving as she hastily grabbed the first aid kit from the backseat. 

He held the wheel with his left hand only, the wounded arm resting against his thigh. She reached out and took hold of the sleeve of his black cotton shirt, just above the wound. The cotton clung to his muscular body still slightly shaking from exhaustion, and there was not enough loose cloth for her to be able to get a good hold of it, but she yanked at it, hard, pulling it in opposite directions with her hands, and tearing the sleeve apart to reveal the wound. Blood was trickling down his arm, but the injury wasn't serious, the bullet bit into the skin but did not damage the muscles. She cleaned the gush carefully, applying the antiseptic. He lifted his arm a bit to give her better access, but his eyes never left the road, glancing only at the mirrors to check if they were being followed. 

The wound was bleeding continuously, so she grabbed a piece of gauze and pressed on it, trying to minimize the blood loss, reaching for the bandage with her other hand. His skin felt hot against her fingers, feverish almost, perspiration mixing with blood and dripping onto her left lower thigh, which she used to support his elbow. She bandaged the wound, methodically winding the long white strip around his upper arm, slightly stroking his skin with her fingers every time she smoothed another layer of the cloth onto the gash. She remembered another wound, at another time, the one that she had given him, and she wondered briefly who took care of it for him, her eyes darting to his left upper thigh, where the ice pick must have left a scar. 

Her steady meticulous movements must have had a calming effect on her, for her breathing slowed down but a bit. She looked up at him, trying to assess his frame of mind, and that's when he finally took his eyes off the road and glanced at her. He held her gaze only for a second, but long enough for her to realize that his blue eyes were still dark and stormy, which somehow unsettled her, as she was expecting to see them gleam with their usual iciness again, but there was nothing familiar in the eyes of the man who had just looked at her. 

The car swerved suddenly, once again sending her body in his direction, but this time she was ready for it and she braced herself against his thigh. He drove off the main road and onto a forest lane she didn't even notice, the car quickly disappearing behind a curtain of trees. If there was anyone trying to pursue them, they would never find them now. The car was shaking violently speeding down an uneven forest road, and she instinctively squeezed her fingers around his lower thigh, just above the knee, her other hand grabbing the dashboard above the glove compartment. If he noticed, he did not let it show. His gaze was intently focused on the darkness in front of them. 

She quickly removed her hand off his leg and grabbed the seat instead. Her palms were sweaty and sliding against the leather, but she held on tight. Adrenaline was still pulsing through her veins, the events of the night continuously replaying in her mind's eye, her body still quivering, partly due to the physical strain it had been subjected to, and partly because of the emotional trauma she had gone through. The loud click of the weapon as it misfired resonated in her head, replaying ceaselessly in a bizarre staccato. She should have been dead. She would have been dead, and so would he, if it hadn't been for a small bout of blind fate. 

Watching him now openly, she realized that below the silent demeanor he felt exactly the same. She could tell it by his dark, stormy eyes, which refused to ice over. While she wouldn't call it fear, she knew he was deeply disturbed, and she saw it in the way his slender fingers gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white, of both hands, for he ignored the pain and used his injured arm as well. She saw it in the way he was sitting, his broad shoulders square, tense. Her eyes wandered up his stiff spine towards the smooth expanse of skin on his neck. The blond strands of hair at its nape were soaked with sweat, and thus darker and curled even tighter than usual. A feral feeling shot through her at this sight, her left hand twitching involuntarily, letting go of the grip it had on the seat and inching up ever so lightly, as if she wanted to bury it in his hair, starting with the base of his head, where those tiny curls met the skin. She controlled the urge as quickly as it penetrated her consciousness, turning abruptly away from him, and clawing at her seat tightly. 

But it couldn't be undone. 

A fervent spasm bore through her body, setting her skin aflame, and sending a shockwave to her crotch, her vaginal muscles contracting uncontrollably. Her underwear soaked instantly, and she desperately fought the urge to cross her legs, and to rub them together, and give her yearning some semblance of release. 

Her mind screamed in protest at the desire that turned her blood into liquid fire, at the absurdity of her longing for the touch of the man she abhorred, but at some level of her consciousness the walls she had put up some time ago crumbled and understanding dawned on her. Of the fact that her choices paralleled his more often that she would like to admit, and the fact that her motives were not as pure as she'd like to think, and weren't it his choices and his motives that she held against him? His methods she loathed with passion, they were the only thing that set them apart, but only as long as she was willing to forget about her own manipulations, and lies, and pretenses she put up. 

He was right. They were not that much different. She detested the thought as much as she detested admitting to herself that this was not the first time she felt attraction towards this man. He awoke something feral within her, as if the darkness that penetrated her spirit longed for its match, just as much as everything that was pure and honest in her longed for Vaughn. 

Her mind could be deceived, but not her body. It's been months since she felt a touch of a man, and right now, it was his touch she yearned. She craved his darkness. Her body was still re-living the trauma of earlier events, of the grim promise of death, the promise she almost shared with him. Nothing like a near death experience brings people closer together, for only they are able to comprehend its abysmal inescapable touch, a touch that burns into one's soul and never heals, only scars, deeply. What she had shared with him earlier would stay with her forever, and so would he, woven into the tapestry of the death's mark on her spirit, just as she would forever remain part of him. 

A violent shudder shook her body, lust sending jolts of firebolts from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet, her clitoris throbbing painfully, her mind filled with an image of his dark, stormy eyes as he had eyed her in silent defiance to the death that had awaited them. 

That's when the car came to a sudden halt, and she realized that they were parked by a small dark cottage, in the middle of the forest. He must have taken them to a safe house she didn't know about, but she wasn't surprised, for when they had arrived in Poland three days ago he had mentioned casually that he'd been here before, on several occasions. 

He got out of the car and quickly walked up towards the cabin, fumbling with the doorknob. When the door had opened and he'd noticed that she hadn't followed him but was still sitting in the car, he moved towards the car cautiously, a tiny frown creasing his forehead. Her mind was frozen, her body still trembling with arousal, watching him from where she sat, her gaze never wavering from his face as he was approaching her side of the car. He reached out and opened the door slowly, and if she hadn't known better she would have said that he seemed worried about her, but she did know better, she did know that the man she was looking at did not care for others, unless he needed something from them. The thought that she wanted somebody like him made her gasp for air, and he must have mistaken her reaction for a delayed shock caused by the night's events, for he reached out his hand offering to help her get out of the car. She eyed his hand warily, then looked up at his face, hoping to see the familiar iciness in his gaze, which she knew would have quenched all her desires, but his eyes were like a stormy sky, clouds of darkness illuminated only by flashes of thundering light raging beneath their surface. 

She bolted out of the car, ignoring his hand, her shoulder connecting with his chest as she rushed past him and dashed into the cabin. It was small, with a fireplace and a table, and a narrow bed, and it smelled of damp wood, and old-fashioned oil lamps. She froze abruptly in her tracks, taking it all in and then turning swiftly to face him coming through the door. His movements were slow as he closed the door behind him, his eyes never leaving her face, as she stood there, breathing heavily, her chest lifting up and lowering rapidly, as if she'd just completed a long run. 

Her mind was crying out in protest, recognizing understanding in his turbulent eyes, he still thought she was having a panic attack, a traumatic reaction, and she thought, "He wants to console me," a notion which only deepened her turmoil, for she didn't want his pity, she didn't want his comfort, she didn't believe he was capable of such human emotions, what she wanted from him was much darker and much more primal. She absorbed the sight of him, poised at the doorframe, his injured hand still resting against the doorknob, blue jeans accentuating his long legs and his slim waist, a black shirt embracing his well-defined chest, one of the sleeves missing, uncovering a tanned muscular arm wrapped in the bandage, and she wondered if the skin on his chest and his back would feel as smooth and as hot as it did on his arm when she took care of his wound. His face was a sea of mystery, she recognized none of the emotions playing with his features, for she had never seen any of them when she had looked at his face before. His sarcastic disdainful smirk was gone, his lips slightly parted in a breathless question, the muscles of his jaw flexing below the silky skin. He was leaning lightly forward, his head tilted down, looking up at her from under creased eyebrows, the thunderstorm in his eyes raging with a force of a typhoon. 

She had never seen his eyes so brutally dark. 

Suddenly, he was crossing the distance between them, rapidly smashing into her, the force of his body propelling her against the wall, just as he grabbed her hair and ruthlessly claimed her lips, his mouth wantonly demanding obedience, his right palm pressing forcefully against the back of her head, their lips smashing together, while his other hand lifted her body and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. She didn't think, driven by fiery lust hungrily responding to his assault, entangling her tongue with his as it ferociously plunged into her mouth and stroked, rhythmically, savagely. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck, tightly, very tightly, her elbows crossed, resting at the base of his neck, while her hands were in his hair, roaming it in a brutal caress. He held her face in a firm grip, his thumbs resting on her temples, his hands burning into her skin, as she kissed him wildly, breathlessly, mindlessly. 

Her legs felt weak, if her body hadn't been wrapped around him, if a wall hadn't been supporting her back, her knees would have buckled, so powerful were the sensations his closeness evoked in her. Her clitoris demanded his touch, pulsating painfully, but he wasn't ready to abandon her mouth yet, bruising her lips with the force of his attack. Sucking and nibbling on his crooked lower lip she reluctantly untangled her arms, leaving only one hand to roam his mussed hair, the other inching down the expanse of his back, pressing hard against the muscle as if she wanted to absorb him through her touch. Finally her fingers reached the rim of his jeans and, instinctively, she plunged her hand under the cloth, demanding to feel the heat of his skin against her palm, her hips thrusting against him. A muscle in his jaw jumped and he suddenly let go of her mouth, locking his stormy eyes with hers. 

For a split second the only sound in the cabin was their rapid breathing as they both panted for air, her face still in his firm grip, but then he was assaulting her lips again. His hands left her face, however, and when they did she wanted to cry out in complaint, but she didn't because suddenly his palms slipped in between their bodies and under the rim of her pants. She raised her hips slightly, giving him easier access and that's when he pulled at the thin linen, pulled hard, sending the buttons flying off in all directions, his hand plunging under, yanking her underwear off, his mouth never leaving her lips. She did not remember unbuckling his belt, but she must have, for suddenly she disengaged from their lip lock, throwing her head backwards and gasping out loud as he buried himself inside of her, pushing in violently, deeply. 

There was no need for him to build up the rhythm, no need to wait for her, neither of them could wait any longer, and so he pounded into her, fast, hard, and then faster, harder. She was slick and tight, her inner muscles clenching around him, her body already beginning to convulse. He was kissing her neck, just below the earlobe, and she was screaming, crying out every time he thrust inside. He was supporting her with only his own body, her fingers digging into the flesh on his back, bolts of pleasure and pain shooting through her every time he crushed into her. She was sliding in and out of conscious thought, feeling his body start to shake violently, feeling the warning tremors of a shattering orgasm, and then she was coming. And then she screamed one final time, and he groaned frantically, his movements completely feral and she felt him expanding inside her and finally bursting, as she sagged around his body, clutching at his flesh, burying her face in his neck. 

They remained like this for a moment, waiting for the tremors to subside, panting, until she felt his palms encircling her face, her legs slipping off his hips and his lips claming her mouth again. He kissed her, the urgency gone, but the passion still lingering, and as he kissed her, he took a step back, pulling her with him, away from the wall, and then pushing her forward and lowering her onto the bed. She collapsed onto the bed flat on her back, his hot, heavy body resting on top of hers. His tongue was thick and heavy, sliding over her teeth, against the inside of her cheeks, filling her. It probed deeper and deeper into her, their lips meshing together in a dance that was growing more and more frenzied by the second, once again. 

She threw one of her legs over his waist, and pushed her palms slightly against his chest, cueing him to let her climb on top of him. He did, and once she felt him hard and hot under her she remembered that he was more than just a mouth. He was a whole man and she could have all of him. And she wanted it all. She disengaged from this kiss and, lost in the storm raging in his eyes, pulled his shirt up to his neck and he lifted his arms allowing her to remove it completely. He was beautiful, his upper body simultaneously broad and lean. Hard and soft. Hastily, she moved her mouth down to taste his chest. It tasted so good. So human. She realized that she craved the taste of his humanity, that she wanted to be as close to it as she could, to know that it's there, that he was not just a monster, not just an abomination. As she licked and nibbled on his skin she heard a sound escape his mouth, and she knew that she had never heard him sound like that, so breathless, so sultry, and that after that night, she never would again. 

The sensations that assaulted her body with every taste, every touch of him, slowly overwhelmed her, pushing her to the edge of reason and soon she crossed over to the land that existed beyond conscious thought, where instinct and thirst and desire reign, and then she was lost in it, conquered by need. By him. 

Seconds became minutes, minutes turned into hours, and they remained entrapped in their bodies' carnal tango, and some time between the first and the last she knew finally what she'd seen in his stormy eyes and what had driven him towards her that night. She couldn't name the agent of their undoing, for there was a myriad of them, but she remembered when that thunderstorm had first overcast his icy blue gaze, for she saw that moment still frozen in his eyes: a humid, moonless sky, a shallow ditch in the ground, hands bound behind their backs, kneeling side by side, deprived of their gadgets, their backups, together, but lonely, so painfully lonely in their final moment, the finality of it smacking them square between the eyes, wiping his pride and her prejudice off their faces, stripping him off of his sarcastic smile, and tearing her judgmental frown off of her. They had been equal at that moment, as equal as water and fire may be, and they'd faced their final trial of passage, but that time, for the first time, they had been facing it together. 

Ensnared by death, hopeless in its face, overcome by fear, that moment had brought them together as nothing else ever had, as nothing else ever could. Death had held their souls in a breathtaking grip, its bony hands emblazoning its mark on their spirits, never to be shed, a grim memento of a time shared, by them only. 

No one would ever comprehend, no one could, for they would never share it with anyone, never tell a soul. They knew, however, that the marks that blemished their souls would always recognize their twin, every time he would search her eyes, every time she looked into his, death's emblems would always be there, blazing, burning in their chests. He'd known it when he had ran from death, and she'd known it, too. And as they succumbed to the carnal desires that ignited their bodies, they exercised their demons, banished them over the edge of conscious thought, just for a moment, just for _that _moment. 

The demons wailed and bit at their spirits, they could not be cast out that easily, and when the two of them were already asleep, enveloped in one another on the narrow bed, the nightmares came. When the images of death and desolation invaded her sleep, she woke up with a start, his hands wrapped around her tightly, in a protective embrace, and although she knew he was a monster, she accepted his refuge and sought the consolation he offered, and she searched for his lips in the darkness, her lips scraping against the rough, stubbly surface of his cheeks. He opened up under her instantly, instinctively, and they danced again, but this time slower, and if she could she would say that this was the closest to what she'd call making love to him, but she wouldn't say it, for he had her lips, and besides, he was a monster, and she couldn't love a monster, and so that's what it was, a dance to banish their demons. 

Not a word passed between them, the still of the night disturbed only by the sounds that escaped their mouths as they danced, celebrating life to outlaw death. 

When the morning came, he woke up first and got out of the bed, for with the light it was no longer where he belonged, and he covered her naked body with a blanket, for the time had passed when he was allowed to see her like that. He dressed and froze by the window, waiting for her to rouse from her dreamless sleep, blinking away the images that lingered below his eyelids, of her skin, bruised and cut as a result of their wantonly dance. That's how she found him when she opened her eyes, hands in his pockets, gazing out onto the clearing. He sensed that she'd woken up, but he did not move, allowing her to put her clothes on before he turned to face her. The light of the day was harsh and she saw bruises around his mouth, brought about by her ferocity, and she would have wondered if her lips were as battered, but before she could form that thought her gaze wandered to meet his eyes and she paused, perfectly still, for she saw that his stare was once again icy blue. 

The storm had subsided. 

He wordlessly allowed her to change the bandages that covered his wound, the gauze soaked in congealed blood, from the injury they had re-opened when they ravished each other. As she applied the long white stretch of cloth around his arm she wondered how much time would pass till she saw the sarcastic smirk return to his face, and she was sure he was expecting the look of disdain and prejudice to crease her features soon. 

They left the cottage minutes later, heading for the airport, and he was driving again, away from the shallow grave in the ground, and the docks, and the forest, and the cottage they would never return to. 

**The End**   


**Author's Notes: **This story was inspired by a line from Rhien Elleth's "An Exercise in Control": 'She glanced up, met his eyes, felt something hot lance through her at the look in them. Stormy. Dark.'   



End file.
